
TWO RHYMES. 







Class "F^ICTS 
GopyiightN i^oa. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



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Two Rhymes. 




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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

MN 12 1903 

Copyngnt Entry 

&jUs. %n-tq 01- 

CLASS «^ XXc. No 

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COPY B. 






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COPYRIGHT, ig02, 

By James Phinney Baxter. 




rhymes are affecfionafejy inscribed 

in memormm 



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Over the city hangs a mist, 

And the smell of the sea brings a thought 

of storm ; 
About the chimneys the smoke wreaths 

twist, 
And under the eaves the pigeons swarm ; 
East, north-east, like the finger of doom, 
Steadily pointing into the gloom, 
On the First Parish spire is plainly seen 
The vane which a century there hath been. 






Sunshine giveth it not a kiss ; 

Shadows it cleaves like the shadows of 
death ; 
And, somehow, cometh a picture of bliss, 
Of gardens and blossoming fields in a breath ; 
Cometh out from the kingdom of dreams 
Mellowed and hallowed by memory's beams, 
And towers and spires and walls of stone, 
And the busy marts with their crowds are gone. 




Into the garden bis young ivife trips 
Bearing a greeting upon her lips. 



August, seventeen sixty-seven ; 

And here is Parson Samuel Deane ; 

He looks at the vane which swims in heaven, 

And murmurs, " Wind west and the sky serene.' 

Into the garden his young wife trips 

Bearing a greeting upon her lips, 

While ever the robins amid the blaze 

Of the currant bushes sweet tumult raise. 




Parson Smith comes up the street 

With fluttering hair and three-cor- 
nered hat, 

Lapelled coat and shoe-buckled feet, 

And over the gate holds a neigh- 
borly chat ; 

Says Deane's house "Is grand as a 
king's" ; 

" Cobb and Lowell have done great 
things ; " 

" Till grandchildren's children in- 
herit the land, 

And longer yet shall their good 
work stand." 



Autumn seventeen seventy-five ; 

An awful redness sweeps over the sky ; 

Whirlwinds of smoke through the city drive ; 

Hither and thither the people fly ; 

Mowat's guns in the distance boom, 

Telling the city its terrible doom ; 

Yet over disaster and death and pain 

Like a finger of hope points the silent vane. 




Tet o-ver disaster and death and pain 
Like a finger of hope points the silent -vane. 





May eighth, seventeen eighty-eight ; 
The soft winds blow through the greening fields 
Up from the cove, and the robins prate 
Of all the blisses which summer yields ; 
And now to the parson's stately home 
Fivescore damsels and dames have come 
With threescore spinning wheels, every one 
To whirl unceasing till day is done. 



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Parson Smith in a straight-backed 
chair 

Of carven mahogany brought over 
seas ; 

Over his shoulders his long, thin 
hair 

White as a shroud, sits chatting at 

ease 
To Parson Deane of Pitchwood hill ; 

While Annie Pearson, 
sixty — but still 

Young as at twenty — 
at every wheel 

Drops a kind word with 
motherly zeal. 




Sixty spinning wheels all awhirl ; 
A hundred sweet women talking as one — 
Gray-haired matron and flaxen-haired girl — 
Keep the house in a tumult till setting of sun 
And lighting of candles, when men-folk drop in — 
Husbands and lovers — increasing the din ; 
And over this picture so warm and fair 
The old vane swings in the balmy air. 





Till setting of sun 
And lighting of candles. 




Years have flown, and Parson 
Deane 

With his warm-hearted wife 
roams a pleasanter land. 

Many and many a changing 
scene 

Comes and goes ; Sheriff Foxcroft, 
so grand 

With his cockaded hat and wonder- 
ful cue 

And gilt-buttoned coat of colonial 
blue, 

Buff vest, and breeches, and staff, 
which before 

Judge Whitman he stiffly on court 
mornings bore. 





T=4P H.ll 

if \-H h .i T "' ! 




Pshaw ! a day-dream it is, I 
declare ! 

Everything changes so strangely 
to-day. 

'Tis March sure enough, and every- 
where 

Is snow on the ground ; and, sooth 
to say, 

'Tis seventy-six. Yet gone from its 
place 

Is the ancient house with its kindly 
face, 

And outlandish men with pick and 
with spade 

Dig up foundations a century laid. 



Still over the city hangs the mist, 

And the smell of the sea brings a thought 

of storm ; 
About the chimneys the smoke wreaths 

twist, 
And under the eaves the pigeons swarm ; 
This is no dream, for there in the sky, 
Pointing where clouds shut the sun from 

the eye, 
On the First Parish spire is plainly seen 
The vane which a century there hath been. 





It was a simple dream I had, 
And heard the boys of forty-two 
Calling from far with voices glad, 

To gools, as they were wont to do ; 
Sweet voices from a misty shore, 

Calling to me with joy once more, 
All in ! All in ! gools ! gools ! 



gools 




Aye ! voices of the boys we knew 

When Master Jackson was keeping 
school. 

I see him as plainly as I see you, 

Perched at his desk on his lofty stool ; 

And that well-known shout is in my ears 
Echoing back from far-off years, 

All in ! All in ! gools ! gools ! e:ools ! 





Over his spectacles, noiv and then, 
He peered at us. 



Over his spectacles, now and then, 
He peered at vis, as the feather frail 

He dipt and carved to a shapely pen ; 
Trimming the nib on his broad thumb-nail. 

Never could one as grave as he 
Have run and cried with boyish glee, 

All in ! All in ! gools ! gools ! gools ! 



Yet showed he oft a humor fine, 
Would smile when flogging Jack 
or Pete, 
And question with a look benign, 
If his " sap sugar " tasted sweet. 
Mad boys they were ; Ah, mem- 
ory's ear 
Still seems to catch their voices 
clear, 
All in ! All in ! gools ! gools ! 




How played they mumble peg and tag, 
Jackstones and ball when school was out ; 

Or yellow oakers sought when Fall 
Dropt lavishly its wealth about. 

Lo ! Deering's Woods still charm the eye, 
And hark ! the old familiar cry, 

All in ! All in ! gools ! gools ! gools ! 




Or yelloiu oakers sought. 




. 



Cried by the grandsons of the boys 
We knew so many years ago, 

With not a thought of all the joys 
Whose graves alone, alas ! we know. 

Aye ! cried with all the old-time glee 
With which they cried to you and me, 

All in ! All in ! s:ools ! erools ! g-ools ! 




i En 




Then call dear ghosts — in sleep — in 
dreams — 
When aught may quicken memory's ear ; 

Your voices sweet as silvery streams 
Through glooms of doubt we well may hear 

Still calling us, who lag behind, 
To fields we but through sleep may find, 

All in ! All in ! erools ! ffools ! srools ! 



12 1903 



